Peter's Greatest Adventure REVISED
by Meredith A. Jones
Summary: It is 1960, the year of Peter Davies's death. PP: To die would be an awfully big adventure! Please take the time to reread and review, as this short story is now being recognized by JM Barrie's most dedicated biographer, Andrew Birkin.


Peter's Greatest Adventure  
An Opinion on a Historical Event,  
Short Story by: Meredith Jones

A Note From The Author: This story reminded me of an Edgar Allan Poe short - fearfully depressing, but still making you want to read it, nevertheless. I wrote this in a few hours, after I had gotten the idea. When you read this, think of what J.M. Barrie _really _looked like. He had brown hair and a thick brown mustache, to say the _very _leas - just to give you some sort of image. Background for this story is in the Summary on the outside of the fic. Enjoy! Love always, Meredith xxx

OoOoO

_This short story has been modified specially for Andrew Birkin, who is, in my opinion, James Matthew Barrie's Number One biographer. His book, J.M. Barrie and the Lost Boys has trumped all others since it's appearance. He was acquainted with Nico Davies (the 5th son, for all of you _Finding Neverland _fans, who wasn't in the movie) and acquired many of his and his brothers' and 'Uncle Jim''s materials in the process of writing his novel._

_Dear Mr. Birkin,  
_

_Thank you kindly for taking the time to reply to my email, and for taking the time to read this! You are welcomed with arms opened wide onto today, by all of us! It is uncommon that a wonderful author shows himself to be a wonderful person as well. Again, I thank you wholeheartedly. Do enjoy this, and please, _please _feel free to send me an email with your opinions and criticism (unlike many, your criticism will be welcomed, utilized, and received with joy) or a review by clicking the button at the bottom of this page. However, an email would be much preferred.  
_

_Very Sincerely and Respectfully,  
Meredith A. Jones, December 22, 2005_

OoOoO

Peter sat in his room at the Royal Court Hotel, locked inside, for he feared if the door was ever opened by anyone but his brother, Nico, something horrible, something dark and evil, would be in the door's frame. He and Nico were the only Davies boys left, and Nico, afraid for Peter's condition, checked on his brother every day. Peter had seriously insisted on inventing a special rhythm for Nico to use to knock on the door of his small house, so he would know who it was if someone were to come to call. Nico had only sighed at the proposal years ago, but had agreed for the sake of his brother's sanity, for their relationship, and for the respect he had for the older man.

The curtains of the window were slightly parted, and Peter sat in front of it, his head wrapped in them, and his knees pressed up against the wall. There weren't many out on the street that time of day. It was quiet. Quiet as it is in the night time, quiet as death, or what he had imagined it to be like. He peered down at the streets from the second floor of his house. He had watched the outside happenings all day for a few years, the entire time that he was at the Hotel, when he wasn't wallowing in his failures (most being failures and worries decades old) and moping around his successful publishing company. He watched everyone from that window. He'd witnessed a murder from that window, had seen a man cry, had seen a marriage break apart.

Years ago, men had come to take away many of the the cobblestones and broken rock out of many of the sidewalks and roads he had walked upon as a child (not all, but most), and had covered over the roads with a chunky, smelling, black material they decided to, ironically, call: "blacktop." _James Barrie would have come up with a more creative name than that, _Peter often thought with a snort.

But James Barrie had been dead for near twenty-three years now.

Peter had gone to his funeral in Kirriemuir. He had left for Scotland a few days before the date, sitting in the inn where he had rented a room, ruminating on the circumstances. He had stood at the grave on the burial day, staring at the headstone, in the middle of a gigantic sea of Mr. Barrie's admirers and lovers. Peter was only a speck in the crowd, nothing of any importance. He never was, he never had been. He was only used for a name, and then jeered at and abused everywhere he set his shaking foot, for it.

Peter remembered he had spat on the grave at the end of the ceremony, after everyone had filtered out of the tiny cemetery, and then covered up the soiled area with a large bouquet of red roses and baby's breath.

He had hated James Matthew Barrie.

He had hated the man with such a passion that it almost made him insane.

He had hated him so much, that he_ loved_ him.

He loved him with all of his heart, and all of his being. He had spent every day of his battle with his beloved playwright, at his bedside, his hand clasped around the wilted hands which once had had magic drawn from them, which once wrote words that seemed to have come from heaven itself and had been brought to Earth with a struggle. His eyes had fixed upon his sunken face day after day, week after week. James stared at the ceiling for hours sometimes, and sometimes, he spoke to Peter. He'd even make a joke now and again, but a smile would have pained him, so his overgrown and grayed mustache only twitched, as if it had been disturbed by a feather. At these times, Peter would find himself exploding inside, laughing hysterically, tears flying from his face straight onto his Uncle James and onto his bed sheets, no matter how humorous the tiny joke was. He would be laughing out of pure amazement, that this man, this genius of a man, now in so much pain and having gone through so much heartbreak and sorrow, could still pick something out of his head to give a chuckle to a man, right off the top of his dying head, even when the shadow of death had been casted upon him.

_"I don't fear death," _James would say often, while wrapped in his coverings. It was difficult for him to speak: he'd been filled with the devil, filled with sickness and impurities. Sickness that refused to be passed. His words were often slurred when he did speak, and his voice was gruff, harsh, and strained. _"It is truly the greatest adventure in life. Remember that, Peter. Stand before death like an iron stallion. Trample it with hooves you construct with the very soul and meat of the heart that lies in that so injured chest you carry around to this day." _He had closed his eyes here._ "You will be taken to a wonderful place, Peter. A place better than life itself. Life, Peter, is only a long lesson in humility. It is a flaming torch which licks at your insides and pinches and sucks at them like a leech. You have suffered for me: you should know more than anyone, the effects of life, and the effects, Peter, of awesome and magnificent love." _

_"Go to sleep, Uncle Jim," _Peter had said, the vision of the man before him blurred with tears.

_"But, Peter, I can't sleep," _had said James, his throat constricting and his lashes fluttering. His body slowly became tense and rigid, his hand squeezed Peter's, and then, slowly, he relaxed, and let out a moan of relief. His mustache twitched again, but this time, it twitched into a tiny smile, that, if you didn't know Sir James Barrie, you wouldn't have even known it was there. Peter knew, though. He knew he had gone to Neverland.

Peter had written to James all through the war. He had been with his brother, George, until the day he was shot in the chest, on the field. Peter had thrown aside his gun as soon as he saw the brave soldier fall and had sprinted to his collapsed form in the dirt, narrowly missing a bullet himself. He had slid into the mud next to his felled brother, and had taken him into his arms, tracing his fingers over the wound, looking at George's tangled face. _"Write Uncle Jim immediately, Peter." _Peter did, but it was too late. George had been taken to the doctors, but the bullet had pierced his right lung, and without being able to get air to his limbs, died, before James's response left to find his one living boy. When the letter had reached the site, however, Peter had already run away from the camp. The entire duration of the journey, all he thought about was his brother George, and even Jack entered his mind, who he had lost track of since he left, but would hopefully see again upon his return to tell him the news personally. When he had returned home, more devastating news awaited him. He learned from James that the _RMS Lusitania _had been sunken - hit by a U-Boat, bursted into flames, and had taken his long-time friend and producer, Charles Frohman, with it.

Michael had been attending Oxford when he died. He had jumped into the Sanford Lasher with a male friend of his. Peter had seen the bodies tied together, and had spat on them as well. Little Michael. The Michael with the smiling eyes, with the shining youthful face.

And now, all of them were gone, except Nico. Peter had nothing left from his childhood, from the endless, magical days he had spent in beautiful London, in beautiful Kensington Gardens, with his young brothers, and his playwright, who, until his death, much unlike he and his brothers, had never managed to grow up.

So, Peter, filled with rage, lifted his aged body from the chair, scrambled to the kitchen, picked up a pen, scrawled a note for his brother, should he come later that day, and left it on the counter. He left the door unlocked, took his coat from the closet, and set out. He traveled first to Kensington Gardens, stopped in front of the statue of Peter Pan that his playwright had set there, stared at it and its pipe for a painfully long time, lacking any expression on his torn and broken face, and then proceeded on, away from the beautiful park where James had once written Peter Pan so many years ago, to the busy city streets, and the London Underground.

Peter looked like everyone else there, blending in naturally. He walked around the underground system for an hour or so, watching subway cars fly by him. He often stopped, close to the sides of them, and looked through the windows at the people inside, who stared back at him for bits of seconds, and then were gone in an instant like ghosts. Peter retired at one stop, stood around inside a crowd of people for a time, then moved to the edge of the group. He withdrew his coat from his body, rolled it up, and set it on the ledge. He peered over the side of the cement platform at the garbage, and a rat that crawled into the darkness as soon as Peter set his eyes on it. Then, he waited. Another minute passed. And another. Two more minutes. Peter looked at his watch, calmly, nonchalantly, as if nothing was to happen. _"Like an iron stallion..." _

One minute. Peter closed his eyes to feel the wind rush against his face, and heard in the distance, the wail of a whistle blowing. His eyelids snapped open when the distant sound of the voice of an official told him to step back from the yellow line, but he didn't, remaining stationary. He listened harder for the train. Again, it sounded. It was louder this time, and he stepped ever closer to the edge, rolled up his sleeves to his elbows, and bent over to see down the tunnel, his knees and hips aching. When he saw the light, his heart sped to an extreme pace. He stood straight once more, and glanced at the subway official, who was now running to fetch police. No matter. The police could watch, as well, if they wished to. He gave not a care in the world if all of London was standing with him then.

It was moving fast, that train, and its whistle screamed at Peter, pushing itself hard through the tight tunnel, and became louder still, until the scream was so deafening that even though he had his eyes closed again, he knew it was close.

With a last glance to his left, at the shouting policemen galloping toward him, and at the frightened crowd, Peter Davies took a breath, and hurled himself in front of the train.

It was, indeed, his greatest adventure.

OoOoO


End file.
